The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

Raindrops deflected off my car’s windshield and guided me back into consciousness. A glimpse of Leon Chase’s home reminded me of my feat a few minutes ago, but I still wondered if I had made a prudent choice. Did Leon even deserve a chance to buffer the severity of his conduct when he informed his wife? If I had more time to debate the matter, I might’ve altered my itinerary. But in spite of my conflicting opinions, I already promised him amnesty for one evening. I therefore allowed my eyes to drift to the passenger’s seat again; this time they leveled upon the journal. Perhaps now would’ve been a prime moment to pen a few of my raw, unmitigated feelings onto a blank page.

  I then clasped my journal in both hands, angling the book’s spine just under my chin. The journal’s leather cover felt smooth and crisp beneath my fingertips, and a scent of fresh wood pulp permeated from its unruffled center. I fanned the book’s pages under my nose, which might’ve appeared peculiar to anyone who didn’t appreciate such agreeable smells. However, I gathered that from all of my quirky habits, my obsession with this aroma was an innocuous observance to others. Yet I also knew very well that I was stalling, for I realized the relevance of my penultimate destination today. After a few seconds I set the journal back on the seat next to my cell-phone. It was impossible for me to look at this device without casting a wicked thought toward my wife.

  Surprisingly, my phone’s screen displayed evidence of Rachel’s trepidation. Seven missed calls and five text messages didn’t persuade me to move anymore quickly, however. I presumed she—like everyone else in town—had heard about the murder at school, and maybe she even contemplated my involvement. I planned to let her stew a bit longer, not quite as long as she made me wait for the truth, of course, but for enough time to let her sense my resentment toward her disloyalty. My decision to do this wasn’t purely vindictive. I believed that my unannounced arrival home would’ve spawned a genuine reaction from Rachel. She wouldn’t have time to rehearse her expression, and I’d be able to intercept her feelings before they became tainted by pretense.

  Eventually, after sensing the protrusion still tucked beneath my shirt, I returned my concentration to the gun. I wondered why I felt a need to carry the weapon at all. Had I truly intended to wield it, wouldn’t I have already done so in the presence of Leon? He managed to save himself by once saving me, but what about Rachel? I have no story to recount where she ever protected me. If anything, she had calculatingly aimed to undo me as man. I shook compulsively at the prospect of committing an unthinkable act.

  Before this morning I don’t think anyone would’ve described me as remotely obsessive. In fact, those most familiar with my temperament might’ve classified me as the antithesis of that ugly trait. In the past, I routinely avoided situations that induced stress. Prior to the symptoms of my illness, even my wife commented on my immunity to the majority of life’s tribulations. None of those assessments mattered anymore. Admittedly, I had become skeptical of almost any detail that loaned itself to interpretation.

  As I hunched behind my car’s steering wheel, I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Outside the curb near Leon’s driveway, a murder of crows converged on a fallen sparrow. I watched these sable-winged scavengers peck rapaciously at the carrion feast. I recalled Shakespeare’s words in Hamlet, but there was no divine providence in sight. I couldn’t help but to preview these crows as harbingers to calamities yet to come. Regardless if I was right or wrong in this estimation, my placement here was no longer necessary. After a few seconds, I started my car and drove away, but not without deliberately craning my neck to watch the crows quarrel like harpies stripping Phineus of all his provisions.

  The late afternoon’s grayness didn’t improve my mood as I navigated back toward Willows Edge. My car’s headlights projected a hollow amber light upon the asphalt, creating a glare that caused me to veer off the roadway slightly. From the moment I turned onto the adjoining street to my home, my thoughts of Rachel intensified. Despite my bitterness, I attempted to recall fond remembrances of my wife. Most of these memories transported me back to Lake Endelman, where the woman I adored once caressed my hand with her own. In those authentic moments of bliss, we absorbed the essence of unpolluted love.

  Even childish forms of recreation fulfilled us both. The simple act of skipping stones across the lake’s surface with Rachel at my side had import now. I once believed that our ease and fervency for one another would’ve remained as unadulterated as this water forever. But like all reflections rippling on this sanctuary’s surface, our images distorted with the colorless shades of night. Now, with the evening of my existence upon me, I quivered with regret at the realization of those bygone days. When had we flung the final stone together? In a sense, our hearts failed to beat with effortless vibrations. As all things denser than water must do, the stone plunged into the depths to discover a realm of untold secrecy. Such was the mark of most loves lost.

  Rachel’s passion for me had long since vanished, leaving only the undulations of purer times veiled beneath the common loons’ passageway. I envisioned Rachel in our bed, embraced by her new lover, prepping for dreams that lured her farther away from the stale currents of marriage. Had she already meandered with Leon along the trails surrounding Lake Endelman? Had they enlaced fingers and flicked stones as we had once done? Had she yet sat upon my rock beside him and watched the willow tree’s limbs shimmer in the fading sunlight? Only the lake knew of these things. The idea of Rachel making love to another man soured my stomach. I tasted acrid bits of bile on my tongue. I pictured her giggling at the prospect of sullying our sheets with another man’s sweat. Reflexively, I lowered my hands from the steering wheel and adjusted the gun’s handle against my waist. After touching the weapon, I anticipated silencing my wife’s laughter. A toxin as lethal as cobra venom surged through my arteries during these seconds, and I almost convulsed with prohibited pleasure at the notion of her demise.

  Then, after reaching within a thousand feet from my house on Overlook Avenue, I witnessed an unlikely sight. At first, I presumed my eyes had created an optical illusion between the raindrops. But even with the glare of headlights obscuring my view, I noticed the school’s custodian standing amidst the torrents or rain. My foot tapped anxiously on the brake, slowing my Volkswagen to a standstill. If I wished to prove my eyes inaccurate, this action didn’t satisfy the peculiarity. The man’s presence was irrefutable. As always, he leaned casually on his broom’s handle, seemingly unaffected by the inclement weather. He had somehow managed to follow me into my neighborhood.

  Naturally, I was baffled by his tenacious pursuit. To my memory, the custodian had no previous knowledge of my home’s location. Maybe I had inadvertently mentioned it to him today in one of our conversations. Although I had no further need or patience for his homilies, I couldn’t simply drive past the man without dissecting his motivations. One way or another, I sought to put an end to his harassment. In order to achieve this objective, I pulled my car over to the curb and summoned his attention.

  By the time I shifted the vehicle into neutral, however, the custodian decided to walk in the opposite direction. Was this just a childish game to him? What could’ve he expected from me now? Rage boiled in my bloodstream as I scanned both sides of the street. I surmised that the artful dodger had taken refuge behind a hedge or sycamore tree. It then occurred to me that the custodian knew about the stolen gun, and he had obviously tracked me here as doggedly as a bloodhound on a quail’s scent. I continued my chase by snapping the car’s gearshift into reverse and backing up, but by the time I angled my Beetle around the corner, the custodian was gone. It didn’t seem likely that he could’ve traversed more than twenty paces in any direction, but the pavement and sidewalks showed no evidence of his whereabouts.

  Not to be outdone by the custodian’s stealthy maneuvering, I coasted up the adjacent street, searching between a few parked vehicles alongside my neighbors’ yards. My methodical search didn’t bring me any closer to him. I then wondered if he already knew
of my house’s precise address; if this was the case, he could’ve very well made headway toward it now. It may have been an irrational assumption on my part, but I believed he wanted to converse with my wife prior to my arrival. The speed of my car increased with my rapid heartbeat. As I gradually exceeded the posted 25-mile-per-hour limit, a few curtains shifted in the houses’ windows aligning Overlook Ave.

  The rain’s velocity made it impractical for me to drive too heedlessly, and the diminished visibility hindered me from spotting the custodian. In an effort for me to improve my chances of finding him, I parked my car across from a dead end street. Even if he proved clever enough to avoid detection for the time being, I didn’t imagine that he had the agility to outrun a vehicle once he came into plain view.

  As I listened to the sound of my car’s idling engine, my eyes drifted to the left. In the distance, I noticed a lone female figure hobbling purposely up the puddle-ridden walkway. Her gray umbrella and raincoat served as telltale signs to her identity. I doubted that even a typhoon would’ve dissuaded Cora Hart from walking her cotton-pelted Pomeranians around the block. Since the sly-eyed widow missed virtually nothing, I imagined she already noticed my erratic driving, and the fact that I had parked on the wrong side of the street. Maybe it would’ve been wiser for me to just drive away, but my decision to do so was ultimately compromised by a familiar deterrent.

  Once again, I sensed perspiration swelling to my skin’s surface, further dampening my already saturated clothing. If I planned to avoid Cora’s interrogation by leaning my foot on the gas pedal, it seemed like a fruitless prospect now. Moreover, I didn’t have any strength remaining in my body to resist this forthcoming episode, and so it seemed foolhardy to pretend otherwise. I presently felt as if I was drowning in the waves of a storm-lashed sea. Nothing within my power would’ve preserved a safe haven for me any longer.

  Chapter 66

  4:58 P.M.